


Any Greeting

by luna_plath



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, F/M, Hand Jobs, Kink Meme, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Wedding Night
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-11
Updated: 2012-06-11
Packaged: 2017-11-07 12:37:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/431280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luna_plath/pseuds/luna_plath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>And why should it be alarming?</i> he asked himself.  <i>Because you still think of her as your sister, or because you want her more than you’ll admit?</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Any Greeting

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thefairfleming](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefairfleming/gifts).



“I would have you as my Hand,” Daenerys said, plucking a sliver of blood orange from her plate. The juice dripped down her fingers, stained red against her milk-pale skin. 

_Blood and fire_ , Jon thought. _And just as red._

“I’d make a poor hand, your Grace, and I have no wish to leave the north,” he said, weighing his words with a tone of finality. “The last time I saw Lord Stark was when he left to be Kind Robert’s Hand. He was beheaded in his service.”

“Surely you don’t think you would meet the same fate?” she said, her violet eyes shinning. “I want those loyal to House Targaryen on my counsel. You were the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. You know what it is to have such a responsibility.”

“Your Grace, If you’ll recall, I was stabbed by my own men as a reward for my service with the Night’s Watch,” Jon reminded, absently scratching Ghost behind the ears. The direwolf yawned and curled up by Jon’s feet.

“A crime,” Daenerys said. “Had your men obeyed and shown more loyalty, perhaps many lives would have been saved. You know this. If I cannot persuade you to take the position, then I will present you with another.”

She paused and took a long sip of Arbor gold, her gaze held on him the entire time. “How would you like to be Warden of the North? Your cousin Sansa is heir to Winterfell. It is my wish that you wed her, securing your position as Lord and protecting Sansa from lesser nobles who seek her claim.”

The offer mirrored another he’d received in what felt like another life. Before, the idea of holding Winterfell had made his chest seize up with the wrongness of it, but now he couldn’t think of anything he wanted more than to simply go home.

_Marry Sansa_ , he thought, remembering the large part of his life when he’d known her as a sister. Even then they had not been close, not the way he’d been close to Robb or Arya, and he knew even less of her since her time in the Vale, but if it was the only way to keep a Stark in Winterfell then he would not be opposed to the idea.

“Yes,” Jon said, thinking of the castle of his boyhood, of the howl of wolves at night and the fresh scent of the evergreens.

“Do I have your word?” she asked.

“My word, your Grace. As a Targaryen.”

\----

He returned to Winterfell in mail, black breeches, and a Targaryen cloak, but with Ghost following his mare like a pale shadow he felt like less of an intruder. Jon recognized none of the faces at the gate—if any of his father’s men had survived Robb’s war, Theon’s burning, or the long winter he did not see them. 

Despite the lack of familiar people Winterfell was like an old friend in and of itself. Sansa had done better than Jon had ever expected, the towers and walls looming just as they had in his memory. 

_I know this place, but they don’t know me,_ Jon thought as he dismounted, handing the reins over to an awe-struck stable boy who couldn’t be older than Rickon would have been. 

It was a bitter realization, that House Stark was well and truly changed, those he’d loved and grown up with long departed. His memories of Winterfell would have been empty without the servants, guards, and others who resided within the castle, yet they remained absent upon his arrival. A group was assembled within the inner walls, displaying all of those employed or stationed at Winterfell. Jon easily picked out Sansa, her auburn hair brighter than he remembered, drawing him like a moth to a flame.

His own men followed—some from Daenerys at King’s Landing, others from what had been the Night’s Watch, all of them sworn to him and House Targaryen.

“Lady Sansa,” he said, seeing her for the first time since he’d left for the Wall so long ago. Nothing in her appearance suggested she was anything but a woman grown, her body slim and young and clothed in pale gray velvet. She had always been compared to Lady Catelyn in appearance, but there was a look of the north about her that Jon recognized in her pale blue eyes and sharp cheekbones.

“Jon,” she returned. 

Somehow, that one word was better than any greeting he could have hoped for. He took her hand and kissed it.

“It’s good to see you finally home,” Sansa said.

\----

Even with all the changes at Winterfell the Godswood remained unaltered. Jon took in the sight of the massive, knarred heart tree, remembering all the times he’d knelt in this very place. Sometimes with his siblings, or those he’d known as his siblings, but usually alone. Ghost followed him into the wood this time, his silent partner among the wirewood branches and heated pools.

All his time beyond the Wall had strengthened his belief that the Old Gods of the north remained. Seeing the heart tree intact when the castle had suffered from so much destruction was a comfort, but not a surprise. Jon sank to his knees and met the stare of the crude, weeping face that had been etched into the bark.

“The more I learn about myself, the less I know who I really am,” he began, thinking of his new last name. “Please help me understand. I grew up thinking I was the son of Eddard Stark, and now I know otherwise, but how am I to wed a woman I once thought of as my sister? How could that make her happy?”

The tree offered no answers, just the bleached, unyielding expression it had always worn. Ghost rubbed his muzzle against Jon’s shoulder.

His cousins—Robb, Arya, Bran, Rickon—all were either dead or missing, all except Sansa. She had been the only one to point out the distance between him and their family, he remembered, which now seemed oddly appropriate. Jon knew that Sansa must have changed during their time apart, she had only been eleven when he left for the Wall and she for King’s Landing, but a tight, sore part of him recalled the dismissive way she used to refer to him as her half-brother.

_And now I’m not even that_ , he thought, rising from the ground. Jon strode over to a group of trees around a slight turn, framed by the steaming pools of still water. Perched on top of a boulder that had been softened and rounded with time was Sansa, her dark red hair reminding him of the leaves on the ancient wirewoods.

For a moment he wondered if she’d been listening, but Jon squared his jaw and squashed his apprehension. He’d said nothing she wouldn’t already expect to hear, and if there was an answer to how he was to make her happy then now was as good a time as any for her to share it.

“My lady,” he said, sitting down next to her on the smooth rock while Ghost padded further into the gathering of trees.

A faint twist of her mouth, the lowering of her eyelashes—not a true smile, but something. A light blush began to appear in her cheeks and he wondered if he was truly feeling pleased at her small show of emotion. They’d exchanged few words since his return to Winterfell. Granted, it had only been two days prior, but a repressed part of Jon desperately wanted to reach out to her, to begin to know her at least a little before the day of their wedding.

“You can just call me Sansa.”

Not looking at her, Jon said, “That’s a pretty name.”

He met her gaze this time and Sansa allowed a true smile. She’d told him many years ago that complimenting a girl’s name was always polite; Jon hadn’t thought she would remember.

“I didn’t mean to overhear,” she said earnestly, looking down at her lap. Her hands were small and pale and just as lovely as the rest of her. “Jon, please don’t overly concern yourself with me. You are much better than any of the other men I have been or was almost married to.”

Her confession failed to graze his emotions, but her choice of words did not escape him. 

_Better_ , she’d said. Jon knew what that meant.

In measured tones, he said, “It pleases me to hear you say that. But Sansa, once I am your husband your happiness will always be my concern.”

He reached down, gave her small, lovely hands a light squeeze, and left. Jon gave her a slight nod as he waited for Ghost to trot to his side, taking in the sight of her against the branches before departing.

\----

A week after his return Jon invited Sansa to go riding with him. In truth, he remembered that she used to hate riding, but with so many eyes and ears in Winterfell it was difficult for them to get a moment alone together. Their wedding was set to take place in a fortnight and the realization that he would be marrying a woman he knew in memory and not much else was an uncomfortable one. 

He had the stable boys saddle up his brown courser and instructed them to prepare a dapple-gray palfrey for Sansa. Even if his mare wasn’t the ideal mount for riding, Jon preferred her to even the finest bred palfrey. He’d had the same mount during all his travels with Daenerys and the two of them knew each other like old friends.

Even though he wasn’t expecting to use it, Jon still carried Longclaw in its scabbard on his back. The north had been largely subdued since the Dragon Queen, as the smallfolk called Daenerys, had taken the Iron Throne, but Jon knew better than to ride out unprepared. The war of the five kings, the long winter, and Daenerys conquest had made criminals of formerly honest men.

Sansa joined him at the Huntsmen’s gate, her long hair pulled back into a braid. Upon first seeing her Jon’s words stuck in his throat, glancing at her profile as they mounted up and departed at an easy canter. Against the clear, spring sky, her eyes had never seemed so blue, and the sunlight brought out the almost hidden freckles across her nose and cheeks.

Once they’d ridden beyond Winterfell, Jon slowed his horse to a walk and Sansa did the same. “There’s a stream up ahead. Follow me,” he said.

Ghost shot out ahead of them, making for the trees around the small river and startling Sansa’s mount. Jon’s mare had grown so used to the sight and smell of Ghost that it didn’t change its pace, steadily leading them to the water’s edge.

Jon dismounted and helped Sansa do the same, fighting the shock of awareness that spread through his body at the feel of her in his arms. She was shorter than him by a head and warm underneath his hands. A few strands of her sun-streaked hair had come loose from her braid, framing her face and carrying a distinct, poignant scent that all women seemed to have. 

Jon broke away from her in forced casualness, tethering his mare to a tree so she could graze and drink from the clear, frigid stream. All the while he forced himself to shake off the alarmingly strong reaction Sansa had stirred in him.

_And why should it be alarming?_ he asked himself. _Because you still think of her as your sister, or because you want her more than you’ll admit?_

She might have thanked him for helping her down, but her courtesies fell on deaf ears. Jon steeled himself for what he was about to say, clenching and unclenching his burnt hand as he approached the woman he’d been ordered to marry.

“Sansa, I’m going to ask you something, and I want you to be honest with me, even if it’s not what you think I want to hear. Is this marriage truly what you want?” he said, steeling himself to meet her impossibly blue eyes. “If it’s not your wish to marry me, please say so now. Once we wed it will be more or less permanent, and I hate the thought of holding you to a marriage that you chose only out of fear, or duty.”

Her expression shifted from one distinct emotion to another, changing so quickly that Jon could not be sure of her reaction. She parted her lips as if to say something, only to close her mouth, thinking better of it.

Frowning, she said, “What have I done to make you think I don’t desire this?”

Taken aback, Jon clenched his burnt hand into a fist. He’d been expecting a simple yes or no answer; either she wanted to marry him or she didn’t. But how could Sansa want to marry at all, he wondered, when her first marriage had been to Tyrion Lannister, a man twice her age that she’d barely known. And before that she had been betrothed to Joffery, the same man who’d beheaded Lord Eddard and kept her captive in King’s Landing.

“Nothing,” Jon answered. “But the Sansa I grew up with would be devastated if she had to marry for political reasons alone.”

She gave him the same quiet, almost-smile she’d worn in the Godswood. At that moment Sansa looked very much like Lord Eddard, he thought.

“The Sansa you grew up with is long gone, but it seems that you haven’t changed as much as I expected,” she said, the faint curve of her lips holding his attention.

Suddenly, it felt as if they were standing very close together, and Jon couldn’t help but think of how her sides had felt underneath his hands, how the curve of her breast had brushed against his arm. He bit his lower lip and took a half step toward her, noticing the slight part of her mouth as he grew closer.

Jon reached between them and took her hand in his, lightly pulling her to him but not quite bringing their bodies into contact. At this range, he could make out the slight hitch in her breathing at the feel of his skin against hers.

“You aren’t saying no,” Jon said, lightly drawing his thumb along the inside of her palm. “But you aren’t saying yes, either.”

He held her gaze until she looked away, a true blush emerging in her cheeks.

“Is that not enough of an answer?” Sansa asked. 

“No.”

Never mind that he could hear it in her voice, in her breathing, in her blush and the subtle way she reacted to him. Jon wanted to know what she wouldn’t say—that she wanted him for who he was despite the fact that they’d grown up as siblings, that her first marriage had been unhappy, that he would be taking her title as Warden of the North.

She took his hand and placed it against her cheek, startling him in her boldness. Jon could feel the heat of her body beneath his fingertips and it was almost too much, but then she spoke and shocked him even more.

“It is my wish,” she said softly, finally looking up at him. “I wish to be your lady wife.”

Sansa leaned into his body and temptation roared through him like a physical ache, but instead of kissing her in the deserted wood, like he wanted to, he reigned himself in. Jon brushed his thumb over her cheek and pulled away.

“That’s all I asked,” he replied. 

Sansa exhaled a breath of air in what he imagined to be frustration. Jon tried not to make more of it than it was, but that one sigh revealed more than their guarded conversation ever would.

She wanted him. For the part of him that would always remain the bastard Jon Snow, that knowledge was like a talisman. After seeing Sansa safely back onto her palfrey he mounted his horse and guided it into a canter, the two of them following the path back to Winterfell.

\----

The stone walls of his chambers filtered out most of the sounds of early activity in the castle. By now, the kitchens would be pulling hot loaves of bread out of the ovens while the stable hands tended to the animals, but most of Winterfell had not yet woken. 

Jon rolled over and pulled the edge of his blankets a little closer, frowning in his half-woken state. Something light and soft brushed across his back and shoulders, startling him. He turned on his side and blinked a few times in confusion.

“ _Sansa?_ ”

“Shhh,” she admonished him, her blue eyes widening. “Be quiet or you’ll wake the whole castle.”

“What are you doing here?” Jon asked, dropping his voice to a whisper. Truthfully, he was naked underneath the blankets and furs, and his cock had hardened rapidly once he realized just who had climbed into his bed.

Oblivious to his desire and discomfort, Sansa slid beneath his furs, the neckline of her woolen gown open and gaping. Jon had to force himself not to stare.

“I need to speak with you on something especially…personal. I don’t wish for others to hear of it.”

Jon could guess what was coming, but he disliked the idea of interrupting her. It must have taken some nerve for Sansa, who was the least likely woman to engage in anything unladylike, to come to him like this, and he was reluctant to belittle her show of courage.

Taking his silence as a cue to continue, Sansa bit her lower lip and met his eyes. “There are some things you should know before we marry. My marriage to Tyrion Lannister was never consummated, but I am not a maid.”

He opened his mouth to say that it made no matter to him, that he had lain with women himself and held no judgment against her, but Sansa held up a hand to stop him before he could say anything.

“Please,” she said. “Let me finish. If I don’t tell you now I may never find myself brave enough again. After Joffery was murdered Lord Baelish hid me in the Vale with my aunt Lysa. Once Petyr killed her there was no one to notice his behavior toward me. I posed as his bastard daughter for my own safety, but that lie could not fully protect me.”

“Did he force himself on you?” Jon asked.

“Many times,” Sansa answered, her voice even. Jon would have expected her to be more visibly upset about her confession, but he sensed a cool form of defiance underneath her words. “It has been over a year since. I made sure to never conceive a child.”

He wanted to tell her so many things—that the idea alone was enough to make him furious, that he would bring Petyr Baelish back to life just to kill him again, that he would protect her. Instead, Jon reigned in his emotions, knowing that no amount of words from him could change the past.

Under the furs, he brought his arm around her narrow waist. “This will be different,” Jon said, their faces almost touching. “I promise.”

\----

The wedding took place in the godswood in front of the heart tree, taking less time than most of the southern guests had expected. The ceremony didn’t require a septon like weddings under the faith, only vows sworn by the couple and cloaks changed by the bride, though northern weddings remained just as formal. Jon was reminded of the swearing ceremony he’d participated in at the beginning of his time with the Watch, but that had been in another life, an experience that happened to a different man.

Daenerys sent members of court to attend the ceremony and Jon tried to convince himself that he didn’t mind the absence of his remaining family, but a part of him that he’d thought long eliminated had been slightly hurt by his aunt’s preoccupation. He’d hoped that his marriage to Sansa would be important enough for her to attend, but with an entire realm to govern under new leadership it made sense that she would be too busy.

Sansa seemed to perceive his quiet disappointment, grasping his hand as they uttered their vows, lacing her hand with his. Jon gave her a small smile as he reached for the direwolf clasp at her throat, feeling like the tips of his fingers were on fire as they brushed the exposed skin at her neck and removed the white and gray cloth from her shoulders. As Jon brought his Targaryen cloak around her he was struck by how red her hair was. Like fire. Like blood.

Much of the provisions for the feast had been a gift from Daenerys—a necessary one, Jon knew, in light of what the winter had done to the northern food supply. Wine had been provided as well, though it came from Tyrion Lannister himself, the least expected wedding guest Jon could have predicted. 

They had remained friends during his aunt’s conquest; but even so, all men had limits. Jon had assumed that marrying Tyrion’s former wife was one of them, but his presence at the wedding, not to mention his generosity, suggested otherwise.

After leading the first dance with Sansa, then being paired with Alys Thenn and later Dacey Mormont, Jon led his lady wife back to their seats while other couples took the floor. He could feel her nervousness in the way she held his hand. He brushed his thumb along the inside of her palm and nodded for a serving girl to refill their wine cups, hoping that Sansa would feel less nervous after a little assurance from him.

On the dais, Jon could make out nearly all of the distinguished guests. Tyrion was seated at one of the closest tables in a place of honor, along with the few westernmen that had accompanied him. Sansa seemed to follow his gaze, and despite the easy smile she wore Jon knew her thoughts must have mirrored his own.

“I didn’t expect him to come,” she said, leaning toward him. “We have not spoken since I was in King’s Landing.”

“Perhaps it is his way of making amends.”

Sansa thought on that as one of the Umbers called a toast, garnering the attention of most of the wedding guests. The night went on like that, with even more drinking and dancing until Jon lost track of the hour. It seemed like they had just sat for dinner when some of the drunker, rowdier guests began to call for the bedding. Jon squeezed Sansa’s hand before they were dragged from their seats, knowing that there was little else he could do to make things easier for her.

His black cloak was the first piece of clothing to be removed, the red lining flashing as bright as Sansa’s hair, as bright as the cloak of Lannister crimson that Tyrion wore. _What if I am not a better husband to her?_ he wondered, loosing his doublet and tunic at the hands of two different women. Jon tried to dismiss that thought as he was marshaled upstairs, knowing that the lady wife he’d never expected to have would be waiting for him.

\----

As he entered the bedchamber Jon saw that Sansa’s arms were across her chest, as if she were trying to keep herself from feeling cold. The sight of so much of her naked skin in front of him sent a shock of lust straight to his groin, but he tempered his feelings, ignoring the muffled, drunken suggestions that leaked through the stone walls.

In the dim light Sansa’s pale face shinned like a flame. They were in nothing but their smallclothes, his lean, scarred body exposed before her. Jon wondered if she shivered from the cool air or nervousness; a wistful part of him wanted that shiver to be from desire, wanted her to see past their false roles as siblings and the old burn on his hand. Before the wedding he’d been so sure that she wanted this, but now his doubts had taken root, showing themselves in the nervous heat just beneath his skin and the anxious compulsion to clench his sword hand.

The bed was a shadow on the edge of Jon’s vision, part of the background of the entire evening that had been leading up to this point. When he was close enough to count the freckles across the bridge of her nose, he took her arms and pulled them aside.

“Let me look at you,” Jon said, tracing the inside of her wrist. Sansa was biting her lower lip the same way she had when she’d been a little girl caught sneaking lemon cakes from the kitchens, when they’d been nothing but brother and sister. 

Now she would never pass for a mere girl. Her chest was bare, showing her milky skin and the fine dusting of freckles along her neck and collarbone. Jon tucked her hair behind her ear and settled his other hand on her hip, his thumb ghosting over the skin there. He was so close he could hear Sansa’s heavy, shallow breaths, could smell the traces of perfume she wore and the clean scent of her hair.

“Do I please you?” She said, glancing down, too shy to make eye contact. That simple question made Jon want to hold her, kiss her cheek, and call her silly.

“Of course,” he said, unable to repress a smile. 

He took her hand and led her to the bed that had been prepared for them by Sansa’s friend Myranda Royce, pulling her against his body on top of the furs. Lying on his side, Jon leaned the few inches between them and kissed her, cupping her cheek and brushing his tongue over her lower lip. Sansa parted her mouth and slipped her leg over his, her hips nearly brushing his own, reminding him that she had done this before. She gave a little moan, quiet and small, cutting herself short because ladies did not behave that way, before Jon cupped her breast and made her moan for real.

Sansa clutched the hair at the base of his neck, her eyes squeezed shut while he pinched her nipple. “Tell me what you like,” he said, kissing the underside of her jaw.

Her blue eyes flew open, dreamy, her pupils blown. A blush crept into her cheeks. “I can’t, I don’t really…”

Feeling the corners of his mouth twitch, Jon rolled her underneath him and began to kiss her breasts. “How do you like to be touched? If you don’t tell me I’ll just have to try everything,” he teased, taking her nipple into his mouth.

Even if she was too embarrassed to say, Jon could tell when she liked what he was doing. He moved to her other breast before kissing the skin between them, all the while tugging her smallclothes past her hips. Sansa reached for his hand and brought it between their bodies. Her auburn hair tangled with the furs and she lay naked before him, unmarred and perfect. She brought his hand between her legs, feeling how warm and wet she was, vulnerability plain on her face.

“There,” Sansa said. “Please, Jon.”

He brushed his thumb over her nub and he watched her whole expression change; her eyes fluttered closed and her whole back arched, her body taunt as a bowstring. She gave a little cry when he slid a finger in her, moving her hips to meet his hand. Watching Sansa made his cock ache, especially when he heard the breathy way she moaned his name. Before he could finish her off she reached for his smallclothes, tugging them past his hips and shyly brushing her soft, small hand against his cock.

Burying his face in her hair, Jon felt his hips rock into her touch, the movements of his hand growing increasingly clumsy. He kissed her neck, her jaw, her cheek, brushing Sansa’s hair behind the shell of her ear.

“Are you ready?” he whispered.

She nodded and spread her legs, stilling while he guided himself inside her. Her body tensed beneath his, both of them keenly aware of how slick and tight she was, the shock of the sensation making his shoulders tense. Jon hadn’t been with a woman in longer than he cared to admit, and though Sansa was no maiden he had to still his movements once he was fully inside her. It took a few moments for her body to adjust him, her muscles fluttering around his cock while she dug her nails into his shoulders. She drew in a few shallow breaths, fisting her hands in his hair, making enough noise for them both when he began to move.

Jon rocked into her over and over again, taking her earlobe between his teeth when she angled her hips to match his. Heat curled low in his belly and it was impossible for him to look at her, to see the way her lips were parted or the hardened peaks of her nipples. If he looked at Sansa or thought about how good she felt he would come too quickly. Jon thought of the weather, the dullest lessons with Maester Luwin he could possibly recall, the names of all the horses in the stables. 

He reached between their bodies and found the little bud between her legs, circling, feeling her grow impossibly tight around him. Sansa made a sound like she was in pain and froze beneath his body, her eyes shut, cheeks flushed. It was impossible for him to last long after that. The movement of Jon’s hips became more erratic, heat curling through his entire body as he spilled inside her. 

Sansa stroked his back and brushed her fingers through his hair, kissing his neck while he shifted his weight to his side and rolled off her. The sound of her breathing mingled with his, her hair falling over both their faces, his leg pressed between hers. She curled up close to him while he covered their bodies with the furs, her head tucked under his chin while his arm found its way around her waist. Jon kissed her cheek and breathed in the smell of her.

Together, they fell asleep as man and wife for the first time.

**fin.**


End file.
